We're All Broken
by hrhowling
Summary: After 12 years on the run, Stan Pines makes his way to the sleepy town of Gravity Falls in the hopes of living a somewhat decent life. What he does not expect is for a mute hillbilly to almost get hit by his car and a half-mad scientist to try swinging an axe at his head. (Rated T for swearing and possible violence and gore)
1. Chapter 1

**Aand, another fanfiction! Sue me!**

 **I came up with the idea for this one whilst I was in Norway, and wrote it because I was in the mood for cold weather. Obviously, updates will be sporadic depending on school work, motivation and the rest of it.**

 **Enjoy my sadism.**

* * *

 **Chapter 1 – Welcome to Gravity Falls**

 ** _A (Hopefully) Sane Point of View_**

The moment he saw the frost-coated 'Welcome to Gravity Falls' sign blur past him, Stan Pines felt the tension in his shoulders ease up slightly. Finally, he could relax. And if he played his cards right, it would stay that way. Reaching into his coat pocket, he absentmindedly ran a hand along the wad of cash that weighed it down. He'd worked hard the past few years to not only save up this much money, but to also pay off all his debts and shake the nasty crowd he'd gotten himself mixed up in off of his back, too. While he wasn't – and probably never would be – completely in the clear, he was as clean as he could get, and that was fine by him.

Oregon was now one of the few states that didn't possess a poor image of him, and the dully average, unassuming town of Gravity Falls was the perfect place for him to keep his head down and get a fresh start. Buy a house, get a job, keep out of trouble, and maybe even find somebody to hook up with.

Encouraged by this particular thought, Stan removed his hand from his pocket to shift the car's gear down a notch and applied a little more pressure to the gas pedal. His speed increased slightly, and he relished the thrill that coursed through his veins. He'd forgotten what it was like to simply cruise down an empty road without having to worry about whether or not someone was tailing him with a gun-toting psycho sat in the passenger seat and intending to fire a bullet into the back of his skull.

He continued at this speed until he approached the town, before decelerating to a level that wouldn't get him arrested. As he drifted through the streets, he took in the sights that Gravity Falls had to offer. In all honesty, it wasn't an awful lot. Even when covered in a blanket of sparkling white snow, it was a dreary town; only a few people dared venture the streets, and some very basic-looking stores proclaimed their wares. He hoped there was a motel around, at least. It didn't even have to provide breakfast; just a bed and a bathroom, and he'd be satisfied.

After a short while, he pulled up in front of a place called 'Greasy's Diner'. Walking in, Stan was assaulted by the sudden heat of the well-populated diner and the comforting scent of a fry cooker at work. The place was packed and buzzing with conversation, families and large groups of friends were seated at the side tables whilst several loners were sat along the counter, making small talk with one another. With practised care, Stanley approached and took a seat by the counter next to a noisy young man with carrot-orange hair and a red flannel shirt beneath denim overalls. Guessing from the name being repeatedly thrown in his direction, the boy was likely called Dan.

"Well howdy there, stranger. What can I getcha?"

Startled from his thoughts, Stanley looked over the counter at a chubby young woman; about his age; with her dark pink hair styled so that the fringe curled up above her forehead, powder-blue eyeshadow adorning her eyelids and mauve lipstick decorating her lips. She wore a light blue t-shirt and darker blue skirt under a grease-stained apron, and she currently held a glass mug in one hand whilst she cleaned it with a rag that she had in the other.

"Uh, well... what's on the menu?" Stan enquired cautiously, unsure about the stranger.

"I'll just go get it for you," the woman said brightly; departing for a moment before returning with a menu, which Stan gratefully accepted. "Hey, have we met before?"

Stan tensed, but kept his eyes on the menu. Hm, that double decker burger looked appealing right now. "No, I doubt it," he replied nonchalantly. "This is my first time in Gravity Falls."

"Hm, I thought I recognised ya from somewhere. Probably just my imagination. The name's Susan, by the way."

"Stanley," Stan returned with a faint smile. He was starting to like this lady.

"So what brings ya here, then? I mean there's not much to talk about, so why the interest?"

"I came for a fresh start. I... got kicked out of the house some twelve years ago because of some mistakes I made. Been on the road ever since."

A sympathetic look graced Susan's features. "Ya poor thing," she said softly, sounding genuinely sorry.

Stan merely shrugged. "I'm over it. Hey, is there a motel or something round here? I need a place to stay until I can buy myself a house."

"Sure, there's one on the other side of town. Oh, and have ya picked out an order yet?"

"Thanks, and uh, yeah. Could I have the... double decker burger with extra fries on the side, and a Pitt Cola, please?"

"Comin' right up."

* * *

Stanley exited the diner with a full stomach and contentment on his face; something he hadn't experienced in a long time. Getting into the Stanleymobile, he fired up the engine and began the fifteen-minute drive to the motel; going by the direction Susan had given him. He must have taken a wrong turn, because twenty minutes later, he was completely lost, coming the streets in an attempt to find-.

"HOT BELGIAN WAFFLES!" Stan screamed, spewing an unhealthily long string of curse words at the top of his lungs as he violently swerved to avoid the rag-clad figure that had unexpectedly rushed onto the road in front of him. Slamming his foot on the brakes, he yelled in shock as his tires lost their grip on the road, resulting in the back end of the car swinging forwards as the entire vehicle careened along the tarmac; narrowly avoiding a second potential collision (this time with a lamppost) before skidding to an unsteady halt.

Stan sat rigid at the wheel; eyes wide with shock, and breaths harsh and laboured. He'd almost run someone over. He'd almost run someone over.

In a panic, he jumped out of the car and rapidly scanned the street in search of the moron he'd come very close to hitting with his car; eyes laying to rest on the human form that lay shaking in the middle of the road.

Oh no...

Starting forward, he ran towards them; fearing for this stranger's life. He was about halfway there when he finally noticed the group of teenage boys that had gathered on the sidewalk to observe the spectacle. However, they weren't showing the same concern.

"Great job, freak! You almost killed somebody! Again!"

"Just go back to the junkyard before you do some real damage!"

"Another car crash? Jeez, just how much trouble can one nutjob hillbilly cause?"

All these insults and barbed witticisms assailed Stan's ears with a violence he hadn't felt since before he'd left home, even though they weren't directed at him. His blood boiled in rage, and his teeth ground together in aggravation, but he carried on forward and tried to fight off the urge to hit these boys square in the jaws. Yes, he wanted to show them a healthy dose of karma, but he had their victim's health in mind as well. The latter of the desires one out, of course. He'd punch someone later.

"Oh, you're in trouble now!"

"He's gonna pound you into the ground!"

"Hey guys. How much cash are you willing to bet that that dude's gonna put McGucket's other arm in a cast?"

Okay, now he was beginning to reach his breaking point.

"What the heck's wrong with you people?!" he roared, turning on his heel to glare at the teenagers. "This man could be dead for all you know, and you're insulting him? That's sick!"

Most of the teens fell silent; shocked by Stan's defensive outrage. However, one boy was unfazed.

"That old ragbag's more trouble than he's worth!" the insufferable brat retorted mockingly.

"If you knew anything, you'd wish you'd hit him full on!"

"How about I ram you into the road?!" Stan spat back. "Now buzz off, before I decide to do so, you good-for-nothing punk!"

He must have sounded serious, because the boys all shot each other the same nervous look before scarpering. Good riddance. With his anger somewhat quelled, Stanley knelt down beside... McGucket, was it? ... and looked him over. "Hey, you okay?"

McGucket was a tall, lanky man, if the length of his scrawny limbs was anything to go by. However, it was hard to tell, because of how tightly he was curled in on himself. A tangled mess of long, matted hair hung around his bony shoulders and flopped over his sickeningly pale, gaunt, unshaven face, which currently bore indescribable terror etched into every detail. His cheeks were dangerously sunken, and his eyes donned a set of ugly, bruise-like circles around them; a sign of sleep deprivation; not to mention they were currently wide with shock and completely vacant, as if he'd fled from reality or something.

"Hey, you gonna answer?" Stanley pressed, getting a hold of the trembling man's shoulder and shaking him gently. He wasn't sure what to do, and although he knew that it would be a good idea to get this guy out of the middle of the road and somewhere warmer, he had no idea what the best course of action would be. What if he'd suffered serious injury after getting hit by the car? He could risk making things worse. "Come on, you've gotta say something."

It was only when snow began to fall, and he figured he'd just have to pick the man up regardless of the consequences in order to get him out of there, that McGucket seemed to finally snap out of it and focus on him with glazed eyes. Haunted dread flooded those pale blue depths, and he unexpectedly lashed out at Stan; swinging a wild punch that only just grazed across his face; and frantically tried to scramble away, only to fall to the floor again with pain clearly written on his face.

"Hey, easy, I'm just try'na help," Stan said. "Be careful, you're hurt."

The barest hint of annoyance flickered through McGucket's eyes, but he didn't say anything, so Stan wordlessly held out a hand. To his confusion, the strange man stared at his appendage as if he were holding out some nerd equation for him to figure out.

"Come on, we can't spend too long in the middle of the road," he said in slight annoyance. "Let me help you up."

McGucket nodded, and finally complied; taking hold of Stanley's hand and allowing himself to be pulled up onto his feet. The oddball was favouring his left leg.

"Umm…" Stan mumbled as he guided the limping McGucket to his car. "Do you, like… have anywhere to go? Home, maybe some family? Anything?"

In answer to his question, McGucket just shrugged, looking lost, hopeless and confused; something Stan was painfully familiar with. Lost because he didn't know where to go; hopeless because there was nothing he could ever do about it; confused because he had no idea where everything went wrong.

"Nothin', huh? I guess… you could stay with me for a little while," Stanley grunted, carefully assisting McGucket into the passenger seat before darting round to set himself behind the wheel. He felt eyes on him, and a glance over at the strange man riding shotgun told him that said man was looking at him with a mix of bewilderment and undying gratitude, which honestly made Stan feel worse for him. Clearly, the guy hardly ever experienced kindness. It was obvious, really; he was homeless and not a single person seemed to care. The dark grey trench coat he wore was badly torn in places that left him seriously exposed to the cold, his feet were covered in bandages as poor replacements for shoes, and the hems of his ragged old trousers were completely shredded. An old plaster cast encased his lower right arm, indicating that he'd taken a beating at some point, but now it probably served as some menial form of protection from the elements. Among other things, of course. There was always more to fear when the whole world wouldn't just get off of your damned back. "Name's Stanley, by the way. Stanley Pines."

A fleeting glint of recognition flashed through McGucket's eyes, but Stan thought nothing of it. He probably heard about one of his many failed attempts at marketing. With shaky hands, he fumbled through his pockets whilst Stan fired up the engine of the Stanleymobile. After a moment, the scrawny man brought out a battered old notepad and a pencil (the end of which had been chewed to a lump of splinters and ground-up graphite), and flipped to page that had obviously been read over many times before, judging from the stains and torn-up edges. He turned it to Stanley, and he read the simple message written on there.

 _"_ _My name is Fiddleford Hadron McGucket."_

* * *

 ** _From a Mute's Skewed Perspective_**

Fiddleford may have had trouble remembering things, but he certainly remembered that his plans for the day didn't involve getting hit by a car. It really hurt, which was the main reason he had wanted to avoid it, but regardless of the driver's attempts not to collide with him, the back of his red-and-white Cadillac had swung round and smashed into his side, sending crippling pain shooting through his right hip. Oh, god, he hoped it wasn't broken.

After getting hit, Fiddleford vaguely recalled the sensation of falling onto the ground and hitting his head. He… wasn't quite sure what exactly happened next. He was in another one of those moments when he just felt… numb to everything around him. Another world full of cool mist shrouded the one he should've been in, and he just felt sort of… stuck, but free at the same time, if that made any sense. The best way to describe it was that his body seemed restricted to one place, but the rest of him could do whatever he wanted. Except he wasn't sure what he wanted to do.

In the real world, he could hear muffled voices yelling familiarly painful things at him that made his eyes sting and his chest clench unpleasantly. He didn't understand why everyone was so cruel and uncaring towards him. He'd tried asking, but his failure to create any actual words had only earned him scathing looks and further degradation; pushing him further into that dismal pit of maddening loneliness and depression. Just… none of this made sense to him. He'd done nothing wrong – nothing he could remember, at least – so why did everyone insist on labelling him as a freak and an idiot who needed to 'get lost'?

 _Get lost_. Now that was something he really wished he could scream about. Whenever someone uttered those two bitter words, he wanted nothing more than to tell them the truth. He was already lost.

A new voice joined the rest, but to McGucket's surprise, it was neither malicious nor aimed at him. Instead, it was angry and protective; seemingly aimed at the crueller onlookers; threatening to run them over if they didn't get lost. He couldn't help but feel a little triumphant at that.

There was a brief silence before McGucket heard the newer voice speak again. It was… familiar, as if he'd heard it before, but… rougher than he for… some reason… remembered.

"Hey. You okay?"

Huh. No one had asked him that before. It… felt nice and odd at the same time to realise that someone cared about him.

"Hey, you gonna answer? Come on, you've gotta say something."

There was the barest sensation of being shaken by the shoulder, and McGucket realised he should probably try to find the real world again. As much as he wanted to remain where he was, he knew he'd regret it if he did. If he stayed too long… things started happening. Bad things. Things he didn't want to experience again.

It took a moment, but eventually he managed to get out of the sense-numbing fog and focus on-.

Oh god.

A silent scream lodged in his throat, and he instinctively lashed out at the man before him, then tried to run away, only for lancing pain to strike his hip and sent him sprawling onto the floor again. He looked different, but that… that was His face. The face of the one who would bring about The End. Whatever that was.

"Hey, easy. I'm just tryn'a help. Be careful, you're hurt."

'Ya think?' Fiddleford wanted to retort, but the words failed him as usual. He sat there, immobile as the Endbringer extended a hand towards him.

Wait. Something was… different. Missing. How many fingers did he have? One, two, three, four, five…

Five. There were only five fingers. It… it wasn't Him?

"Come on, we can't spend too long in the middle of the road," the man said, in a voice that Fiddleford had trouble associating with his face. He felt that it shouldn't have sounded so rough. "Here, let me help you up."

With a shaky nod, Fiddleford took hold of the familiar stranger's hand and allowed himself to be pulled up onto his feet. The pain in his hip was slowly dulling down to a throbbing ache by this point; only getting worse if he tried moving his leg or placing any weight on it. It really hurt, but at least nothing seemed to be broken.

"Umm…" the mystery man mumbled. "Do you, like… have anywhere to go? Home, maybe some family? Anything?"

Fiddleford felt as if he should've been able to answer that. Told the man where to go as if it were easy as breathing. But like most everything else, there was nothing. No memory of any family, or even a home to remember. Sure, there was the junkyard, but that was… well, he didn't really call it a home. He supposed it was something, seeing as how he'd been settled down there for a while. He even had a pet; a little raccoon called RJ who he fed potato chips and watched crappy movies with on the battered old TV he'd managed to cobble together from the parts of other ones that were beyond repair.

"Nothin', huh?" the mystery man murmured as he guided him into the passenger seat of his car. Fiddleford couldn't help but feel a little apprehensive at this. "I guess… you could stay with me for a little while."

Wait, what? He… he was letting him stay? This… this felt like… oh, he had no idea what it felt like, but it felt _amazing_. This… Oh, this was gratitude, wasn't it? Probably, although it wasn't often he ever had a reason to feel grateful.

"My name's Stanley, by the way. Stanley Pines."

He… he knew that name. Stanley. Stan. Pines. Stan… something-or-other Pines. He _knew that name_. But… where?

A headache was beginning to nag at him, so he stopped thinking about it so frantically. He could ponder the familiarity later. After he'd introduced himself, because he may have been homeless in every sense of the word, but he still had manners. That he'd spent god-knew-how-long trying to relearn, by the way.

Reaching into his pockets, he busied himself with searching for his notepad whilst Stanley fired up the engine. Upon finding it, he opened it to a page he'd spent many hours sitting on a steel barrel in the dump staring at. Memorising the message, burning it into his mind so that he'd never forget. Not again. Never, never again.

 _"_ _My name is Fiddleford Hadron McGucket."_

"Fiddleford, huh? Well, bud, you got directions to the hotel in that notebook of yours?"

* * *

 ** _Through the Eyes of a Madman_**

It was all so cold. Jesus Christ, he was _cold_. Why was it so-? Oh, wait. It was snowing, of _course_ it was fucking cold! Snowflakes clung to his hair and tossed themselves at his face, completely numbing his skin. His clothes (he really should've put on something warmer than a shirt, trousers, some old leather shoes and a trench coat) were soaked through and clinging to his torso, he could barely see more than a foot and a half in front of him, and it was getting harder and harder to move. Harder and harder to… to think.

"C… come on," he growled hoarsely. "J-just… just get g-going. A-almost there."

After an eternity (actually just six minutes, twenty-three point four-two seconds) of blindly stumbling through the fog and thick snow, he arrived at the bunker. Several frustrating attempts at pulling the lever later, he was staggering down the spiralling staircase, desperately trying to ignore the stares aimed in his direction ( _they aren't there, they aren't there_ ) and the constant, muttered mantra of 'leave me alone, please just leave me alone' being whispered in his ear. Oh, wait… that was him. He was the source of the querulous nattering. Shut up, shut up, shut up, "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Oh, shit, he yelled that out loud, didn't he? Stupid, stupid-!

 ** _You need help,_** said one of the many voices in his head. One of the few sane ones left. **_Get a psychologist, get more medication,_** **talk** ** _to someone._**

"Trust no one," he snarled back, sounding no saner than he had before. "Trust… no one."

 ** _Not even your own family?_** the voice challenged.

"Can't burden them," he countered wearily. "Pops… would only be disappointed, Shermy wouldn't understand, and I could hurt Ma."

 ** _What about Stanley? Can't you trust your own twin?_**

"He won't help me. Not after what I did."

 ** _That was twelve years ago. Maybe he's-._**

"Unforgiveable!" he screamed, dropping to the floor to curl up and start tugging viciously at his greasy hair. "Can't be forgiven!"

 ** _Not again_** _,_ the voice growled in worried annoyance. **_Pull yourself together, you psychotic nerd!_**

Tears were slowly trickling down his face. Not many, since he was dehydrated and thankfully still had the common sense and willpower not to just pick up some snow and eat it, but they were tears nonetheless. Hot, salty droplets of water that blurred his vision and warmed his face somewhat.

 ** _Come on, snap out of it! You're going to let it get to you like this? Come on! This is what_** **He** ** _wants!_**

At the mention of… _Him_ … he straightened up. The voice was right. _He_ wanted this to happen so _He_ could latch _His_ claws onto his mind again. No, he couldn't let himself break any further.

 ** _Good. Now sort out what you came here to do. Oh, and there's a few cans of food left in the corner cabinet, and some water on the desk. Remember that?_**

"Yes, I remember."

 ** _Good. Just promise me you'll start looking after yourself._**

"Sure, yes, I-I'll do it, I'll do it."

 ** _You'd better._**

With a dismissive grunt, he shakily got up and walked over to the console, brushing past his teenage doppelganger as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

"I'll be fine, Stan," he said in a distant, monotone voice.

His twin didn't look convinced, but otherwise stayed silent as he worked; watching with a look of grim worry set on his features.

* * *

 **Ford: What the heck is wrong with you?**

 **Howl: *shrugs* I have a penchant for afflicting crippling mental disorders on fictional characters.**

 **Stan: Because you yourself have one?**

 **Howl: Probably. Hey, are there any cookies around here?**

 **Stan: You gave them all to Fidds, remember? To say sorry for making me hit him with my car.**

 **Howl: Oh yeah. Can I have hugs instead?**

 **Ford: *frowns* Why are you-? Wait, Fiddleford?**

 **Fidds: *hugs Howl***

 **Howls: Yay! *hugs him back* I got a hug from the cinnamon roll!**

 **Stan: The what?**

 **Fidds: Review, guys! Hey, I can talk here!**

 **Howls: Of course, this isn't in the actual story!**


	2. Chapter 2

**I'm not... perfectly happy with this one, but I wanted to get it over with. Let me just reply to reviews, and then I'll leave you to read this.**

 _ **Hinata001:**_ **Huh. Never thought of it as a Mystery Trio story. But I guess that's what it is, isn't it?**

 _ **Candymouse22:**_ **Thanks! The matter of Fiddleford's muteness will be elaborated on later.**

 _ **Mariana (guest):**_ **Superior? I think that's a bit exaggerated, don't you think? I'm glad that everyone's in character, at least :)**

 _ **Alysia of the Pen:**_ **Yeah, I'm trying to focus on Stan's desperation to prove his competence in this story. Sorry if the POV switches get annoying, but it's one of my methods of practising with my writing. I'm glad that you approve of Ford's subconscious methods of trying to fix himself, and don't worry about seeming mean; I love guilty characters a little too much myself ;)**

 _ **JuneGilbertVivianRaeven:**_ **Wow, I'm surprised at the attention this story's getting already. Thanks! I'm referring to both Stans in the A.N. Stanley is 'Stan', Stanford is 'Ford'. We'll get to Mad Ford's reactions to seeing Stan in the next chapter ;)**

 **Yeah, I feel bad for picking on Fidds, but I plan on giving him a lot of fluff in the future. And cookies solve everything!**

 ** _Guest (guest):_ Thanks! And yes, the possibilities are endless, which is what I love about fandom communities as a whole. There is so much potential.**

 ** _Gladothell:_ Thank you! *hugs you tightly***

 ** _celebi4ever:_ I do believe that that is my madness spreading onto you. Glad it's a good thing, though. And yes, caring Stan is best Stan.**

* * *

 **Chapter 2 – A Bad Feeling**

 ** _A (Now Confirmed) Sane Point of View_**

It took a few wrong turns, but Stan eventually managed to find his way to the hotel with a little help from Fiddleford. By the time they got there, a full-force blizzard had kicked up; shrouding the world in white-speckled fog; and Fiddleford was starting to get… the only way Stan could describe it was 'antsy'. His knees had made their way to his chest with his arms wrapped tightly around them, and it was more than just his hands that were shaking now. Whenever the Stanleymobile rounded a turn in the road, he tensed and pressed his face into his legs as if anticipating disaster. Paranoid, much?

But when Stanley parked his car in front of the hotel and reluctantly left its comfortable warmth to trudge to the entrance, disappointment met him in the form of a sign on the door announcing that the place was closed for maintenance work. Just his luck; he was going to have to spend another night in the car. At least he'd have company this time.

"The place is closed," Stan grumbled as he re-entered the car. "Great. Just… just great. You wanna take the back seat, Fiddleford? I've got some blankets in the trunk."

A ponderous frown made its way onto Fiddleford's face, and he pulled out his notepad to write in it (Stan had realised that the guy was mute when he kept writing answers to his questions in that book for him to read instead of just talking). Dutifully, he read the message. The handwriting was atrocious, thanks to McGucket's constantly shaking hands, but thankfully, it was still legible.

 _"_ _I think I know a place where we can stay."_

"You do?" Stan queried, his spirits lifting somewhat. "Well, do you want to take the wheel and drive us there, or..?"

At the mention of driving, Fiddleford's face drained of whatever colour was left and vehemently shook his head 'no'. He looked positively terrified of the prospect.

"Whoa, okay then. Careful before your head falls off," Stan joked half-heartedly; feeling concerned for his newfound companion. "I'm only asking."

Fiddleford quickly calmed down, but he still looked nervous as he scribbled more words underneath his previous statement.

 _"_ _I can't drive."_

"Oh. Right. Okay then, just… just point the way you want me to go, then, kay?"

An affirmative nod was the silent answer he received.

"Well, let's get going."

* * *

 ** _From a Mute's Skewed Perspective_**

Before Stan had claimed there was nowhere to stay, Fiddleford hadn't had the slightest recollection of the place. But as he looked at the image of Stan in his mind's eye and mulled over what had been said, it had just… come to him. He'd inexplicably remembered it; a picture of a snow-covered shack set in the middle of a clearing, surrounded by tall, dark sentinels in evergreen uniforms that had darkened with the cold of winter; casting the forest they guarded in shadows even more impenetrable than ever. The unfamiliar familiarity of repeatedly visiting the house and seeing Stan's face there slowly returned to him, and he had to wonder if it was his mind playing tricks on him. It just… it seemed so solid; he even remembered the way there, something he never thought possible.

He'd told Stan; knowing that the man wasn't happy about sleeping in his car; but the moment he'd proposed that Fiddleford drove them there, cold terror immediately seeped into his bones, followed by the agonising sensation of loss, and sending phantom pains through his right arm.

Thankfully, he hadn't had to sit behind the wheel of the Cadillac; instead being allowed to merely point out directions from the passenger seat. For once, he didn't mess up (he'd lost count of the amount of times he'd gotten himself lost trying to make his way around town), and successfully guided Stan to the road leading to the shack.

"This it? Down the road and we're there?" Stan enquired bluntly.

Fiddleford nodded, secretly proud of his accomplishment. Leaning back, he tried not to think about the fact that he was riding in a car; something he realised he was really, _really_ anxious about for some reason. As he and Stan rolled further and further along the road, he felt another kind of unease building in his gut, as if there were something else to fear here.

Maybe it hadn't been such a good idea to tell Stan about the shack.

* * *

 ** _Back to Looking Through Saner Eyes_**

The closer Stan got to the place Fiddleford had been directing him to, the more he got the feeling that he wasn't… welcome there. A dark foreboding that he found difficult to shake off, despite telling himself that it was stupid to think such a thing.

 _It's just that fear of the unknown kicking in again,_ Stan thought dismissively. _This town is as dull as it can get; you're just being paranoid._

Eventually, he found himself pulling up outside a lone cabin, surrounded by menacing trees that loomed over everything and shrouded the woods beyond with shadows. Anything could be lurking in there. A hungry bear, a rabid cougar, maybe even a psychopath with an axe. In other words; the place was the perfect setting for a crappy horror movie.

"Sheesh, is this supposed to be some sort of lame horror movie set?" Stan commented as he killed the engine and got out of the car. "What sort of occupation did you have to get you here?"

He almost missed the grim expression that flashed across Fiddleford's face, but it was gone as soon as he noticed, so he merely dismissed it.

"Looks abandoned," Stan mused as he observed the shack some more. There was a multitude of ramshackle 'KEEP OUT' signs stuck into the ground, and coils of barbed wire were set up here and there in a cheap attempt to defend the place. It looked like a badly thought out war zone crossed with a really low-budget horror movie. "The heck..?"

The scratching of a pencil against paper alerted him to Fiddleford's attempts to communicate with him. He looked nervous, as if he regretted his choice to show him here.

 _"_ _I'm starting to have doubts,"_ was the hastily scrawled message.

"This place does have that kinda vibe, doesn't it? But I'm pretty sure there's no one living here. I mean, look at it! It's clearly been out of commission for a while."

A dubious, worried look flickered across Fiddleford's face, but he didn't argue, so Stan trudged through the snow and up to the porch. It creaked ominously under his weight, and a sudden gust of wind sent shivers racing along his spine, but he continued towards the door regardless. Raising his hand to knock, he realised that it was already open, hanging slightly ajar as if someone had left in a hurry.

 _It's nothing,_ Stan tried to convince himself. _The lock just rusted away, and the wind blew it open._

And to prove it, he checked the lock. It was in almost pristine condition.

 _Oh,_ Stan thought. _Well, umm… They just forgot to lock the door properly. Whoever 'they' are._

Shaking way his unease, Stan pushed the door open and entered. Cripes! The place was colder on the inside than it was on the outside!

"Hey, McGucket!" he called back over his shoulder. "You comin'?! This house is colder than a refrigerator in Hell, but it looks more comfortable than the car!"

Immediately, Fiddleford rushed inside, but halted the moment he'd stepped within the door. Fear and bewilderment plagued his eyes as his head swivelled one way and then the other in search of… something.

"Everything okay?" Stan enquired, and at the sound of his voice, Fiddleford's eyes locked onto him, and terror flashed through them briefly before he blinked, and the expression was replaced with mild confusion. He looked around him in a less frantic fashion than before hesitantly stepping forward. His actions confused, Stan, but nothing was said as he headed down the hallway, noting the clutter of crumpled fliers and wind-battered envelopes. "This place has definitely been empty for a while. I wonder where the kitchen is."

Spurred on by this, Stan began his search for the kitchen. What he found was a ton of rooms that were crammed with junk that was a mix of stuff he could recognise and stuff he couldn't. Of what he could discern from the mountains of chaos, there was a dusty old vacuum cleaner, several partially dismantled appliances (a blender, and something that looked like the remains of a computer were among the mess), a skeleton like the one that lurked in the corner of his old biology class ( _hadn't someone stolen the head of that thing for an art project once?_ ), lots of cardboard boxes and black plastic bags full of what he hoped was clothes or some other object that didn't rot and make the place smell bad.

A sharp knock rapping against the wall alerted him to Fiddleford, who was standing half in, half out of a room he hadn't checked yet.

"That the kitchen?" Stan asked.

A small nod was all he got as an answer, but it was good enough for him. With haste, Stan headed into the room. Surprisingly, it wasn't as cluttered as everything else, but there was a dusty loneliness about it.

A prickle of unease clawed along his spine. Someone or something… still visited this house.

"Strange," he mused, trying to stay calm so as not to alarm Fiddleford. "I'd have thought it'd be dustier." If Fiddleford found this statement odd, he made no comment, instead standing by the refrigerator and staring about blankly. He was running his hand along his cast, picking at the bandages absent-mindedly. Stan shivered as the cold bit into him a little deeper. "You wanna go look for some blankets?" he suggested. "I'll see if there's a working boiler here."

The mute nodded and briskly vacated the room, leaving Stan to search around. Checking the cupboards, he realised that they were completely empty, save for some stale bread and a tin of vegetable soup. The fridge yielded a half-empty carton of milk that was _months_ past its sell by date and cheese that had been reduced to a pile of hairy blackish-green mould, making Stan want to gag.

 _Okay, so the boiler isn't in here,_ Stan concluded. _Oh god, please tell me it's not hidden behind all the junk in the other rooms. That stuff will take ages to search through._

Seeing no other option, Stan exited the kitchen and headed over to the nearest door. He was just about to open it when he heard laboured breathing behind him.

"What're you doing in my house?!"

 _Oh, shit._

* * *

 **Howl: And that, folks, is why you should never compare real life to a bad horror movie. Chances are, it'll bite you in the butt later on.**

 **Wax Sherlock: Care to explain why Stan Pines is suddenly so observant of his surroundings? That does not seem very in-character of him.**

 **Howl: *frowns* Are you kidding me? The guy's had to look over his shoulder every five seconds for the past ten years, of course he's going to pick up those sorts of traits. How do you think he's stayed alive all this time?**

 **Wax Sherlock: You... have a point.**

 **Howl: Ha! I got you to admit you were wrong! Now remember what you promised?**

 **Wax Sherlock: No.**

 **Howl: Oh, that's funny, because I could have sworn I heard Pacifica saying she had just got a new _tanning bed_. Hint, hint?**

 **Wax Sherlock: *sweats* I remember, now! Review, please!**

 **Howl: Good. Now, where did I put that heat mat?**

 **Wax Sherlock: A what?!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey! Sorry about the wait, guys. School started, and I've been a little more focused on drawing, recently.**

 **Feels hit hard on this chapter. You can hate me after I've replied to reviews.**

 _ **Alysia of the Pen:**_ **Glad it's to your liking, and that I've managed to get it right with both suspense and Fidds' mindset. Do I want to ask what this family joke is? Or is it too personal?**

 _ **Gladothell:**_ **Glad to know!**

 _ **Guest:**_ **Thank you. It might take a while, but it might happen eventually ;) And yes, Stan's likely going to be the head cook.**

* * *

 **Chapter 3 – Seeing Double**

 ** _Through Eyes that can't even Trust Themselves_**

Despite the relentless howling of the blizzard reverberating in his ears and the unforgiving cold gnawing at his bones, he forced himself to carry on back to the house. He slipped over at some point and sliced his hand open on a sharp rock, and now he was bleeding quite badly. But regardless of the crimson life liquid staining the snow upon which he trod, and the angered voice of Stan telling him to go back to the bunker and wait out the storm, he pressed forward.

 ** _Come on, you're supposed to be the smart one!_** Stan yelled as he trudged past. **_This is not smart! It's pure stupidity!_**

His words went unheard, and he remained silent for the rest of the way.

* * *

He was back at the shack.

 _Finally!_

Sweet relief washed over him, and he picked up the pace as his house came into view. It hadn't changed since he'd left; several windows were still haphazardly boarded up, the signs and barbed wire were still there, and even the car was still parked on the-.

Wait. Wait, he didn't have a car, did he? No, it had been crushed not long after he'd first arrived in Gravity Falls.

Fear gripped him yet again; numbing his already damaged sense of reason; and he sped up into a run towards the door. Someone was in his house, and they were after his research. Bill had managed to trick someone else into allowing him to possess them, and now he was going to open up the portal!

Just outside the door was an axe that he… kept there for emergencies. Grabbing it, he didn't even pause before he walked through the wide open door to find a man in a dirty red hoodie opening the door to the room that housed the stairs to the portal.

"What're you doing in my house?!"

The intruder tensed and slowly, hesitantly, raised his hands into the air. He had his back to him, and gave him a perfect view of that absolutely atrocious mullet. When was the last time the guy had gotten a haircut?

"Hey, stranger," the man said, his voice holding a clearly forced friendliness. He sounded familiar. "Look, I don't want to cause any trouble, okay? Me and my, err… friend needed a place to stay the night, and we thought this place was abandoned."

"Who are you?"

With slow, deliberate movements, the man turned to face him, and horror immediately chased the blood away from his face and sent his heart into his throat. Why? Just… just _why_?!

Yet again, his twin stood before him, but unlike the usual visions, he looked as if he'd actually aged in the twelve years that they'd been apart. He wore denim jeans and an unwashed red jacket, and the mullet coupled with a layer of stubble gave him a worn, neglected look to match the grim wisdom that simmered in his tired eyes.

"S-Stanley?"

His twin's eyes widened, as if he was shocked to see him. "Stanford?! What're you-?"

"Get out!"

Shock and hurt flared in Stan's eyes, and his face morphed into an expression of weary anger. "Nice to meet you too," he growled sarcastically, lowering his hands. "Still an asshole, huh?"

Gripped in the unyielding jaws of fear, he held up the axe in a threatening position. This was not his brother. This was another illusion, and if he attacked it, then so be it. It'd just fade into nothing anyway. "You're not real!" he shouted. "You're not supposed to be here! Just get out of my head!"

Worry found its way onto Stan's features, and he took a cautious step-. Forward? Why the fuck was he stepping forward? He had a fucking _axe_ in his hands!

"Ford?" Stan ventured. "What's going on?"

"You know what," he whined pitifully. "You're just a figment of my imagination. You're in my head when you shouldn't be!"

The worry increased. "Stanford, you… you're not thinking straight. Calm down."

Still wrapped up in denial, he shook his head. "N-no. No, you just need to leave. Please, please just go!"

"Okay, okay," the illusion consented. "Okay. Just… put the axe down, and then I'll go."

Immediately, he tensed and shifted the axe. He'd opened up the wound on his hand, and now the handle was beginning to grow slippery with blood. "I'm not falling for that one," he spat. "You tell me to put the axe down, and then you're all over me. You're not you any more, you're just… just a _thing_. Clawing at my eyes, choking me, whispering, breaking me apart..!"

Horror and disbelief were the only emotions visible in Stan's eyes. His face had set into a mask of hopelessness whilst he watched his brother continue to yell twisted, insane and nonsensical gibberish whilst brandishing the bloodied axe before him.

He heard footsteps coming down the stairs, but it didn't stop him. So what if another demon walked in, it wasn't as if it'd make any more-.

 _What's_ he _doing here?!_

Fiddleford McGucket stood in the hallway, right behind Stan, with fear and only the barest hint of recognition in his eyes. He… he hadn't… no, this… this was…

Stan…

Fiddleford…

Could it be that-?

No! No, he'd just checked! He just got back!

But it had to be… There was no other explanation…

"You didn't…" he growled, eyes zeroing in on the ragged-looking mechanic. "You let him out?! And now you're using him to… to what, replace me? Distract me whilst you and the rest of your sick Society plan to wipe me from existence? What the fuck?!"

He noticed Stan turning to face Fiddleford. "What's he talking about? You know my brother?" his brother demanded whilst the mechanic backed away in fear that had to be fake.

 _The whole thing is staged._

 ** _Please, think rationally._**

 _I am._

 ** _You're not! You really think Fiddleford would do that to you?_**

 _Men will go very far to get what they want._

 ** _This is insane…_**

"Oh, don't play dumb with me, Shapeshifter," he growled, stepping forward menacingly. "Trust no one, trust no one…" He began repeating the mantra over and over again under his breath, but for once he didn't try to stop it when he finally noticed.

"Oh, jeez… Ford," the Shapeshifter whispered, faux dread in his eyes as he stepped forward. More or less stepped over the invisible line that had been set up between them.

With a roar, he lunged forward, swinging the axe towards the Shapeshifter's head. With a look of panic on its face, it ducked and sidestepped to avoid him. It did little to deter him from hacking the monster's face off, though, and he spun round into another attack. He didn't anticipate the Shapeshifter grabbing the axe and wrenching it from his grasp.

"Poindexter, that's enough!"

He froze, eyes wide with shock. "What..?" he murmured disbelievingly. "You just called me…"

"Poindexter," the Shapeshifter – _no_. No, this was _Stanley_ – repeated firmly as he set the axe aside. "Stanford, what… what happened to you?"

Stanford. He was Stanford Pines. His brother was Stanley, and he was right here. He was _real_.

"Stanley… I'm so sorry. I-I kept seeing you, and… whenever I tried to… i-it was _never you_! You were never real, and this time, I just thought… I didn't even think, I just-."

"Whoa, easy Sixer," Stan interrupted, placing a hand on Stanford's shoulder. It…so real and so warm. Finally, he had a tangible grip on reality. "As much as I want to know what's up, you look like shit, and that cut looks pretty bad. Come on, let's get you fixed up. We can talk when you're more… coherent."

Coherent? When had Stanley ever said that before? Regardless, Stanford kept on talking. "I fucked up again, Stan. Real bad, too. I thought I was being clever but I… I really wasn't. Then I forgot to take my meds, and it turns out I'm all out of them, and all this shit happened like a really shitty Butterfly Effect."

"Ford, you're not making sense," Stan said as he lead Stanford to the kitchen and got him to sit down at the table. "Just… wait here whilst I go look for a first aid kit."

Stanford complied and waited in forlorn silence for Stan to return. If he didn't, then… it was okay. He was used to realising that everything was a dream or twisted illusion. There was no point getting upset over the unavoidable.

To his surprise, Stan returned, and he had a green plastic box in his hands. His face bore a familiar worry from when they were kids and he'd just returned from chasing away his tormentors from their childhood.

"Hold out your hand, Sixer," Stan requested as he pulled up a chair to sit down on. Still silent, Stanford held out a hand, choosing not to question the absence of blood. "Other one, genius."

Oh.

* * *

 ** _A Point of View that isn't quite as Mangled_**

While Stan was searching for a first aid kit, he found what must have been Stanford's bedroom. It was… well… Stan could only describe it as 'worthy of a place in the set of a horror movie'. Wow, he was really getting obsessed with horror movies and their likenesses, wasn't he? But in all seriousness, it was quiet unnerving.

The window had been smashed, and some shards of glass were crusted with old blood. A few wooden boards had been nailed over it but they rattled in the wind and did very little to hold back the biting cold of the outside. Papers were strewn about on every surface; some bearing scribbled equations and other scientific writings that Stan didn't bother trying to make sense of; most covered in jagged nonsense. Some of the equations were a little singed, as if Stanford had put a match to them before having second thoughts and snuffing them out. Looking over at the bed, Stan noted how the sheets were slightly torn for some reason, and there was a white pill bottle on the bedside table next to the dusty, dejected-looking lamp with the broken lampshade.

Stan's noticing and paying so much attention to any of this was merely a desperate attempt to ignore the painfully, frightfully obvious sign of Stanford's madness. The writing on the walls.

It was clear that at some point, Ford had completely lost his shit and taken a marker to the plaster. Crazed symbols that meant little to nothing to Stan punctuated scribbled gibberish and nonsense that may as well have been another language entirely. Inky handprints and smeared scribbles accompanied the deranged chaos, and there were smudged red marks here and there. Stan didn't want to delve into the history of those. Trying to block out the insanity around him, Stan walked over the desk and grabbed the green first aid kit that rested upon it ( _ignore the blood, ignore the blood_ ).

Heading back downstairs, he saw that Fiddleford was pacing about the hall with a troubled frown on his face. His hands were wrung together and shaking behind his back; similar to Ford in a way.

"You okay, Fidds?" Stan asked cautiously.

Fiddleford didn't respond.

"Hey, Fiddleford," Stan pressed. That got his attention. "Everything okay?"

A perplexed expression settled onto Fiddleford's face, and he pulled out his notebook to write something in it.

 _"I don't know what's going on. I feel like I should know him, but it hurts when I try to remember."_

Now it was Stan's turn to crease his brow in confusion. "You mean Stanford?"

A nod, and another note. _"Who is he?"_

"He's my brother. We're twins. He… didn't seem so happy to see you."

The look that passed Fiddleford's gaunt features was the only answer Stan needed. The bitter frown and the way he averted his eyes to the floor just screamed 'I'm hardly surprised'.

"You said it hurts to remember Ford. So, what, are you like… some sort of amnesiac?"

Now it was despair's turn to take the reins of Fiddleford's emotions. Nodding, he looked on the verge of tears, and Stan immediately regretted his words.

"Oh, jeez, I-I'm sorry, Fidds," he stuttered, trying to atone for his mistake. "I shouldn't have said that, I really didn't-."

Fiddleford held up a hand, immediately silencing him. After a moment of hasty scratching of a pencil against paper, he showed it to Stan. _"It's okay. You'd have figured it out sooner or later."_

Not knowing how else to respond, Stan merely nodded. "Okay. Look, if you… if you ever need help with… with anything, really… just ask, okay?"

A grateful yet saddened smile and a nod was all he got.

"Right, yeah. I, um… I gotta fix up my brother."

Another nod, and Fiddleford pointed first to himself then to one of the rooms. 'I'll be in there.'

"Sure," was all Stan said, and he headed for the kitchen, where Ford was still sitting at the table and doing nothing. Now that Stan didn't have to worry about having his head cut off, he took the opportunity to take a proper look at his brother. He was pale, unshaven, sleep deprived and gaunt, much like Fiddleford was. A torn, stained trench coat hung from his scrawny frame, and mud caked his shoes and trousers, which were a little worn away at the knees. His unwashed, greasy hair stuck out every which way in a dishevelled, unkempt mess, and his bloodshot eyes were glazed over as he stared blankly into nothingness. "Ford? Poindexter?"

At the sound of his voice, Stanford's focused immediately snapped onto him. He looked surprised, and Stan wondered just how damaged his twin's mind had become.

"Hold out your hand, Sixer," Stanley requested. Sitting down in front of Stanford, he opened the first aid kit and pulled out a bottle of antiseptic, some cotton balls and a roll of bandages that looked almost spent. Then he turned back and saw that Ford had presented him with a perfectly unmarked hand. "Other hand, genius."

Surprisingly (and perhaps a little worryingly), Stanford was dumbly impassive about the jibe, and obediently held out his other hand; the one that bore a long, jagged cut that stretched from the base of his thumb and across the palm of his hand. Blood still oozed sluggishly from it, and it looked pretty red and swollen. The wound wasn't clean enough to have been caused by an accident with the axe he'd possessed earlier, so he must have fallen and hurt himself.

Gripping the wounded appendage by the wrist, Stan set about cleaning it. The moment he placed a damp cotton ball over the cut, though, Stanford gave a low hiss of pain, causing Stan to halt.

"You okay?" he asked worriedly.

"M'fine," Ford mumbled blankly. "It hurts. It's real." His words dissolved into unintelligible muttering.

Brow creased in concern, Stan quietly carried on wiping away all the blood on Ford's hand before moving onto smearing antiseptic onto it as a means of preventing infection. Then he wrapped the appendage in gauze and bandages, and leaned back to admire his handiwork. "Not bad, if I say so myself."

His smile faded when he saw the dull, faraway look in Stanford's eyes.

"Ford?" he ventured. "Hey… snap out of it." With some hesitation, he reached forward and grasped Ford by the shoulder, shaking him gently. "Sixer."

After a moment of shaking and repeating his name, Stanford was finally brought out of his daze. He looked at Stan with confused, unfocused eyes. "Stan?"

"You zoned out for a moment, Poindexter," Stan explained, forcing a rough chuckle out of his chest. "Had me worried."

"Oh. Sorry about that, I-I, um… Sorry about everything…"

Stan almost didn't catch the last whispered words. Almost.

"It's okay," he said. "I'm sorry, too."

Stanford just shook his head. "No, it's my fault. I should've done something, talked to Dad, listened to-."

"Hey, don't get yourself worked up," Stan cut him off, placing a firm hand on Stanford's shoulder. "Listen, I'm over it, okay? But if you really want to talk about it, then we can talk later; when you're thinking more clearly."

"Okay," Ford murmured quietly, bowing his head and refusing to meet eyes with Stan. He looked like a guilty child who'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Brow furrowed, Stan steeled himself to ask the question that had been bugging him since he'd first laid eyes on this town. "Ford, what's going on?"

* * *

 **Wendy: Dude, that is way out of line. Ford thinking his brother is the Shapeshifter? How messed up can this get? Don't answer that.**

 **Howls: I know, I know, I'm a horrible person.**

 **Wendy: *frowns* But you're not going to stop?**

 **Howls: I think we both know the answer to that. Mind asking?**

 **Wendy: *rolls her eyes* Review, guys.**


End file.
